I had a blank wall. Then I painted this. This video shows the entire painting being done in high speed (a la Phil Hansen). Now my room is complete. I hope you enjoy it!
If you want to watch this in high quality, go to here and click "watch in high def:"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8dROq5PAIbE
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Who's that man in the Mustache?!
(Note: I made a new video for this post. Ordinarily, I will put my new videos at the top, but for this post, the video tells part of the story. It’s down there. Don’t skip ahead.)
Every year, as the days get shorter and a chill starts creeping in, I try and grow a winter coat. This usually means I don’t cut my hair for a couple of weeks, then cut it all off when it gets too hard to manage. I have a rule I live by, as far as my hair is concerned, and it is this: You must never spend more time doing your hair than it takes to brush your teeth. When I find myself wasting 10 minutes in the morning wrestling with the curls that sprout from the front of my scalp, it’s not long before I cut it all off.
This year, unmoved by the failures of every winter stretching back to when I was 19 and had really long hair, I tried again. I was gonna take it up a notch, though. This time, my face would also sport a winter coat.
The thing is, as anyone who has seen me shirtless can attest, I have no chest hair.
This is odd because a) I am nearly 30, and b) my arms and legs are hairy enough to give Robin Williams a run for his money. The lack of hair on my “core area” means that, for some reason, my facial hair is patchy and uneven. The area surrounding my mouth gets decent coverage, but cheek hair and sideburns are an absolute impossibility. Thus, a full beard would be impossible, but a goatee was possibly attainable. It was time to give it a shot.
Luckily, my job does not force face-to-face contact with customers, so appearance and hygiene are not really an issue except to those whose cubicles are directly adjacent to mine. This is fortunate because my appearance was going to suffer in the coming weeks and it was going to be hard enough just dealing with the fact that women were going to be appalled or amused by my attempts at looking like an adult.
Sure enough, it came in weak, looking like something you’d find on the face of a junior-high football player or an Italian grandmother. Three weeks in, though, it began to fill in, and look halfway decent, presentable at the very least. Then, at about the three-and-a-half week mark, there it was: A Full-On Goatee.
The Roomies liked it, but most females either hated it or had no opinion. As for me…
It was like a child to me. I haven’t worked this hard on something in a long time. I didn’t really know what to expect. It didn’t sing me to sleep or magically open doors for me, but it gave me something that I hadn’t had before, and that was something on my chin to fuck with besides pimples. Until then, I had no beard to stroke thoughtfully as I pondered things. I had nothing on my upper lip to catch beer foam. Now, though, I could rub my chin and take extra long to answer questions I knew the answer to, because that was what men with facial hair did. When I did answer the question after the allotted chin-stroke time, the answer had more gravity, and a lot of times it had shock value because whoever had asked the question didn’t have a goatee of their own to rub thoughtfully, and were hypnotized by my fine specimen. Or maybe it was jealousy. Whatever the case, the goatee was awesome.
On my annual October trip to San Diego, I got a lot more support for the goatee, but this may just have been because people in San Diego like me and don’t want to hurt my feelings.
The last night I wore the goatee was Halloween night, where my bangs and facial hair added to the Emo look of my costume (see Dall-o-ween post for costume details). The following night, a bar in my neighborhood was having a costume party, and I switched to my other costume: 1970’s-era tennis player. This consisted of a tight white polo, short (short!) white shorts, tall socks, head- and wristbands, my aviator shades, and a pink sweater tied around my shoulders. I had worn this to an 80’s party months ago, and everyone loved it because grown men in tight clothing and short (short!) shorts is funny. This time around, I was bringing something else to the table in the form of facial hair. But goatees weren’t very 70’s. I needed less. I needed a mustache.
The costume was a success. I was hanging out with Adam, who was going as Paulie Bleeker from Juno, so the men-in-short-shorts power was strong with us.
My legs may have been cold, but my upper lip was warm. I figured I could rock the ‘stache for a couple more weeks, at least until I could curl the tips. Mustaches are cool, right? Of course! Just ask The Tick:
Sadly, I only wore the mustache for two more days.
Sunday I went to the King Tut exhibit and I looked, frankly, like a child molester.
Luckily, there was no trouble; I was afraid the authorities would drag me away to the gas chamber, no questions asked (the death penalty here is, as I have mentioned before, swift and arbitrary). I wore the ‘stache to work on Monday, as I had promised some co-workers that if I did ever take it down to that level I would at least show them. They were not disappointed, but goddamn, I looked creepy. Monday night, without fanfare, I shaved it off.
I miss it now.
“Why not grow it back?” you might ask. Because I am lazy, is my reply. I value interaction with attractive females more than I value the support of guys I know that insist facial hair looks good on me. I cut my hair off shortly after this, and I was back to Nik as usual.
Even though the ladies may love my clean-shaven look, I know now that I have lost something more. It’s hard to tell when it happened. At first, I was a boy pretending to be a man. Now that I’ve shaved it, I feel like a man pretending to be a boy. My face looks naked to me.
Next winter, though, it’ll be back. Maybe by then I’ll have some chest hair to match.
Every year, as the days get shorter and a chill starts creeping in, I try and grow a winter coat. This usually means I don’t cut my hair for a couple of weeks, then cut it all off when it gets too hard to manage. I have a rule I live by, as far as my hair is concerned, and it is this: You must never spend more time doing your hair than it takes to brush your teeth. When I find myself wasting 10 minutes in the morning wrestling with the curls that sprout from the front of my scalp, it’s not long before I cut it all off.
This year, unmoved by the failures of every winter stretching back to when I was 19 and had really long hair, I tried again. I was gonna take it up a notch, though. This time, my face would also sport a winter coat.
The thing is, as anyone who has seen me shirtless can attest, I have no chest hair.
This is odd because a) I am nearly 30, and b) my arms and legs are hairy enough to give Robin Williams a run for his money. The lack of hair on my “core area” means that, for some reason, my facial hair is patchy and uneven. The area surrounding my mouth gets decent coverage, but cheek hair and sideburns are an absolute impossibility. Thus, a full beard would be impossible, but a goatee was possibly attainable. It was time to give it a shot.
Luckily, my job does not force face-to-face contact with customers, so appearance and hygiene are not really an issue except to those whose cubicles are directly adjacent to mine. This is fortunate because my appearance was going to suffer in the coming weeks and it was going to be hard enough just dealing with the fact that women were going to be appalled or amused by my attempts at looking like an adult.
Sure enough, it came in weak, looking like something you’d find on the face of a junior-high football player or an Italian grandmother. Three weeks in, though, it began to fill in, and look halfway decent, presentable at the very least. Then, at about the three-and-a-half week mark, there it was: A Full-On Goatee.
The Roomies liked it, but most females either hated it or had no opinion. As for me…
It was like a child to me. I haven’t worked this hard on something in a long time. I didn’t really know what to expect. It didn’t sing me to sleep or magically open doors for me, but it gave me something that I hadn’t had before, and that was something on my chin to fuck with besides pimples. Until then, I had no beard to stroke thoughtfully as I pondered things. I had nothing on my upper lip to catch beer foam. Now, though, I could rub my chin and take extra long to answer questions I knew the answer to, because that was what men with facial hair did. When I did answer the question after the allotted chin-stroke time, the answer had more gravity, and a lot of times it had shock value because whoever had asked the question didn’t have a goatee of their own to rub thoughtfully, and were hypnotized by my fine specimen. Or maybe it was jealousy. Whatever the case, the goatee was awesome.
On my annual October trip to San Diego, I got a lot more support for the goatee, but this may just have been because people in San Diego like me and don’t want to hurt my feelings.
The last night I wore the goatee was Halloween night, where my bangs and facial hair added to the Emo look of my costume (see Dall-o-ween post for costume details). The following night, a bar in my neighborhood was having a costume party, and I switched to my other costume: 1970’s-era tennis player. This consisted of a tight white polo, short (short!) white shorts, tall socks, head- and wristbands, my aviator shades, and a pink sweater tied around my shoulders. I had worn this to an 80’s party months ago, and everyone loved it because grown men in tight clothing and short (short!) shorts is funny. This time around, I was bringing something else to the table in the form of facial hair. But goatees weren’t very 70’s. I needed less. I needed a mustache.
The costume was a success. I was hanging out with Adam, who was going as Paulie Bleeker from Juno, so the men-in-short-shorts power was strong with us.
My legs may have been cold, but my upper lip was warm. I figured I could rock the ‘stache for a couple more weeks, at least until I could curl the tips. Mustaches are cool, right? Of course! Just ask The Tick:
Sadly, I only wore the mustache for two more days.
Sunday I went to the King Tut exhibit and I looked, frankly, like a child molester.
Luckily, there was no trouble; I was afraid the authorities would drag me away to the gas chamber, no questions asked (the death penalty here is, as I have mentioned before, swift and arbitrary). I wore the ‘stache to work on Monday, as I had promised some co-workers that if I did ever take it down to that level I would at least show them. They were not disappointed, but goddamn, I looked creepy. Monday night, without fanfare, I shaved it off.
I miss it now.
“Why not grow it back?” you might ask. Because I am lazy, is my reply. I value interaction with attractive females more than I value the support of guys I know that insist facial hair looks good on me. I cut my hair off shortly after this, and I was back to Nik as usual.
Even though the ladies may love my clean-shaven look, I know now that I have lost something more. It’s hard to tell when it happened. At first, I was a boy pretending to be a man. Now that I’ve shaved it, I feel like a man pretending to be a boy. My face looks naked to me.
Next winter, though, it’ll be back. Maybe by then I’ll have some chest hair to match.
Dall-o-ween
Suggested Soundtrack: "Star Witness" by Neko Case
This is going to be one of my “light reading” posts, mostly filled with pictures and some commentary. Let it first be said that my costume this year was awesome, and that I made it with my own two hands. It took just two hours to turn a black hoodie and an umbrella into this:
This was my Budget Batman outfit. With my goatee and bangs, I looked like a hipster superhero. Bringing technology to the table was Roomie Christian’s costume, Budget Ironman:
Amateur seamstress that I am, I made this costume as well. It involved a yellow hoodie, a red t-shirt, a sharpie, one of those round, “stick anywhere” utility lights that are sold on TV at 4am, and a hockey mask I painted to look like Ironman’s face.
The costumes worked on three levels:
Level one: Grown men in homemade superhero costumes is funny. All we needed was a third guy with a red sheet and his underwear on the outside and we could have had Superman, too. A lot of guys, seeing us in our imaginary costumes, were (and I’m absolutely sure of this) instantly nostalgic and insanely jealous. Every man at some point wished he was a superhero, every man knows what it is like to turn a towel into a cape and bounce off the couch, over the coffee table, onto a bean bag. Our costumes are not the “official” superhero costumes, they are the costume you could have made as a kid, if you were creative and handy with a needle and thread. And speaking of creativity, we have…
Level two: Grown men in homemade superhero costumes exhibit creativity, and chicks dig this. Guys who asked if I made the bat-hoodie myself probably thought I was gay when I told them I did. Girls who made this same inquiry were always impressed, because even bull-riding Texas girls sometimes dream about being with an artsy guy, at least for a little while, and wonder what life would be like with a man who creates brilliant things but also chainsmokes, drinks cheap gin straight from the bottle, and is strung out on painkillers. They see a guy that turned an umbrella into bat wings and they think, “We will have an apartment over a bar, and sleep until two in the afternoon. We will listen to music I can’t even fucking conceive of right now, and get high, and then he’ll have me model nude for him. After he’s done painting me, we’ll have passionate sex for hours. After about a month of this, I will move back to my parent’s ranch in Horsepatty, TX.” I am almost completely sure that every girl has this fantasy. But most of those girls would be afraid of being poor, which brings us to…
Level three: Grown men in homemade superhero costumes is prescient. In these economic times, who has $100 to drop on a good superhero costume? Not I. A few people understood this level of the costume, and those would usually ask what I did for a living. I’m sure a lot of them thought I was joking when I said I work in the mortgage industry. They certainly laughed like it was a joke.
The other two roommates had costumes that worked well together: Daniel grew out his beard, bought a hajj, fashioned a dynamite vest out of a lifejacket and some paper towel rolls, and went as a suicide bomber. Marlina was going crazy trying to come up with something, and had asked for help, so the day before Halloween I said “Sarah Palin” and she went for it. Marlina already wears those dress-suit things and glasses, all we had to do was make her a “Miss Alaska” sash and she was done. Right before we left, though, worry sunk in. Marlina’s worry was that there would be a lot of other Palins running around, and I was inclined to agree. Daniel was confident in his outfit but the rest of us were a little worried that some might find it a touch offensive. We were wrong on both counts. Marlina was a hit, and Daniel’s reception was epic. EVERYONE loved Daniel’s suicide bomber outfit. For whatever reason, most people assumed Marlina and Daniel were a planned duo, and I guess it made sense somehow, at least it did on October 31st in Dallas.
Rounding out the bunch was Adam, spot on as Pauly Bleeker. He met a Juno outside the bar and took the perfect photo. Adam got a lot of love from girls who either: a) love the character from the movie, b) love Michael Cera, or c) love the idea of a guy like that (see also: Level two of the Budget superhero costume dissection).
All in all, one of the better Dallas nights out. Here are some random pics from that night, and any comments I feel the need to throw out there. In retrospect, this is not a “light reading” post, but I refuse to go back and edit that out. I hope you enjoyed my rant. Now, on to the pictures!!
The girls in the costume contest. One took her boob out. Winner!
Budget Ironman meets Budget Tony Stark!
Another Superhero meets us outside:
Enemies!
...and one more of The New Roomies:
Tomorrow look for "Who's that man in the Mustache?"
Until next time...
This is going to be one of my “light reading” posts, mostly filled with pictures and some commentary. Let it first be said that my costume this year was awesome, and that I made it with my own two hands. It took just two hours to turn a black hoodie and an umbrella into this:
This was my Budget Batman outfit. With my goatee and bangs, I looked like a hipster superhero. Bringing technology to the table was Roomie Christian’s costume, Budget Ironman:
Amateur seamstress that I am, I made this costume as well. It involved a yellow hoodie, a red t-shirt, a sharpie, one of those round, “stick anywhere” utility lights that are sold on TV at 4am, and a hockey mask I painted to look like Ironman’s face.
The costumes worked on three levels:
Level one: Grown men in homemade superhero costumes is funny. All we needed was a third guy with a red sheet and his underwear on the outside and we could have had Superman, too. A lot of guys, seeing us in our imaginary costumes, were (and I’m absolutely sure of this) instantly nostalgic and insanely jealous. Every man at some point wished he was a superhero, every man knows what it is like to turn a towel into a cape and bounce off the couch, over the coffee table, onto a bean bag. Our costumes are not the “official” superhero costumes, they are the costume you could have made as a kid, if you were creative and handy with a needle and thread. And speaking of creativity, we have…
Level two: Grown men in homemade superhero costumes exhibit creativity, and chicks dig this. Guys who asked if I made the bat-hoodie myself probably thought I was gay when I told them I did. Girls who made this same inquiry were always impressed, because even bull-riding Texas girls sometimes dream about being with an artsy guy, at least for a little while, and wonder what life would be like with a man who creates brilliant things but also chainsmokes, drinks cheap gin straight from the bottle, and is strung out on painkillers. They see a guy that turned an umbrella into bat wings and they think, “We will have an apartment over a bar, and sleep until two in the afternoon. We will listen to music I can’t even fucking conceive of right now, and get high, and then he’ll have me model nude for him. After he’s done painting me, we’ll have passionate sex for hours. After about a month of this, I will move back to my parent’s ranch in Horsepatty, TX.” I am almost completely sure that every girl has this fantasy. But most of those girls would be afraid of being poor, which brings us to…
Level three: Grown men in homemade superhero costumes is prescient. In these economic times, who has $100 to drop on a good superhero costume? Not I. A few people understood this level of the costume, and those would usually ask what I did for a living. I’m sure a lot of them thought I was joking when I said I work in the mortgage industry. They certainly laughed like it was a joke.
The other two roommates had costumes that worked well together: Daniel grew out his beard, bought a hajj, fashioned a dynamite vest out of a lifejacket and some paper towel rolls, and went as a suicide bomber. Marlina was going crazy trying to come up with something, and had asked for help, so the day before Halloween I said “Sarah Palin” and she went for it. Marlina already wears those dress-suit things and glasses, all we had to do was make her a “Miss Alaska” sash and she was done. Right before we left, though, worry sunk in. Marlina’s worry was that there would be a lot of other Palins running around, and I was inclined to agree. Daniel was confident in his outfit but the rest of us were a little worried that some might find it a touch offensive. We were wrong on both counts. Marlina was a hit, and Daniel’s reception was epic. EVERYONE loved Daniel’s suicide bomber outfit. For whatever reason, most people assumed Marlina and Daniel were a planned duo, and I guess it made sense somehow, at least it did on October 31st in Dallas.
Rounding out the bunch was Adam, spot on as Pauly Bleeker. He met a Juno outside the bar and took the perfect photo. Adam got a lot of love from girls who either: a) love the character from the movie, b) love Michael Cera, or c) love the idea of a guy like that (see also: Level two of the Budget superhero costume dissection).
All in all, one of the better Dallas nights out. Here are some random pics from that night, and any comments I feel the need to throw out there. In retrospect, this is not a “light reading” post, but I refuse to go back and edit that out. I hope you enjoyed my rant. Now, on to the pictures!!
The girls in the costume contest. One took her boob out. Winner!
Budget Ironman meets Budget Tony Stark!
Another Superhero meets us outside:
Enemies!
...and one more of The New Roomies:
Tomorrow look for "Who's that man in the Mustache?"
Until next time...
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
On Chocolate Milk
Suggested Soundtrack: "Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk" by Rufus Wainright
The other day, I was at the store and something occurred to me: I had not had chocolate milk in a long, long time. Chocolate milk is one of my favorite things in the whole world; as far as chocolate flavored drinks are concerned, chocolate milk is third only to chocolate shakes (second place) and Frosties (the best chocolate drink in the whole wide world, bar none).
So I got some powdered chocolate milk mix. This may be a controversial choice for some people, namely chocolate syrup-lovers. But I never liked chocolate syrup. It’s like the nicer version of chocolate powder, and I dislike it in much the same way as I dislike the non-powdered cheese version of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (that silvery packet of pre-mixed cheese sauce grosses me out) and any flavor or Top Ramen besides Chicken and Creamy Chicken (you can keep your fancy-schmancy shrimp and beef flavors). So powder it was.
I didn’t have a glass of chocolate milk as soon as I got home because I knew I’d be forcing it. I wanted to know that chocolate milk was available to me as soon as I got a good, solid hankering for it.
Less than a week later it was time. I was relaxing with the Roomies and I realized that I was a) thirsty, and b) currently experiencing the medical malady known as “sweet tooth.”
The path was clear. It was time for chocolate milk.
What I didn’t count on was my Roomies going apeshit and wanting some too. It was understandable though, and I was more than happy to oblige. There was plenty of powdered chocolate milk mix to go around. This gave me an opportunity to observe their mixing technique, which is, in my opinion, just as important as the powder/syrup issue. There are two techniques.
The Roomies went with technique one: each put two heaping spoonfuls in their respective cups, added milk, and stirred like crazy.
This is wrong.
Technique one leads to sludge at the bottom of the cup.
When I was a kid, I loved the sludge. When I was done, I would tilt the cup way up, position my open mouth at the bottom, and wait for the sludge to slowly creep its way down. Then I would chew the stuff, which was slick on the outside, and powdery on the inside. Only kids can enjoy this. Kids also eat frosting and leave the cake. As an adult, though, I now appreciate the fully-mixed cup of chocolate milk, one that I can sip away at for a little while, and then, at about the halfway mark, finish in one long swallow. I drink orange juice this same way. It allows for measured enjoyment for a while, and then the kind of flavor “hit” that only someone who drinks or smokes or does drugs to excess can appreciate. Having a pile of sludge at the bottom after drinking my chocolate milk in the sip-sip-sip-then-guzzle manner would be like chewing the ice at the bottom of a cocktail, eating the filter of a finished cigarette, or drinking the bongwater: more of the same, but worse. As far as I know, there is only one way to ensure that there is no sludge at the bottom of my chocolate milk without using a blender, and that is technique two.
Technique two is the exact opposite of technique one. It involves timing and finesse, as well as a solid knowledge of the relationship between color and flavor. First, put milk in the cup. Next, take your spoon and begin stirring the milk, not too briskly. You want a consistent mini-whirlpool. If tiny drops of milk are flying out of the cup, you need to slow it down a bit. Once you have the correct spin on things, with your free hand, grab the open container of chocolate milk mix and position it over the mini-vortex. Now, ever so gently, begin tapping the container with one of your gripping fingers, and little bits of powder will begin to trickle out. It is important that you do not stop stirring, and it is equally important that you do not go overboard with the tapping. Not enough stirring or too much tapping will lead to clumps, and clumps sink and become sludge. So stir, and tap, and if you are doing it right, the milk will magically begin to get darker and more chocalatey every second, without any clumpage. If you drink a lot of chocolate milk, you will know the color you like it, and can stop at the exact moment that your mix reaches that color. If not, you are on your own, but keep in mind that grade school chocolate milk is a lighter brown, and bottled Nesquik is a darker brown with a little more thickness to it (If you prefer Yoo-hoo, stop reading this and throw yourself out the closest window, or just omit milk and substitute used toilet water. Yoo-hoo is some gross and terrible shit. This is a fact). I like my chocolate milk slightly darker than grade school brown.
We stirred away, each of us remembering the last time we had chocolate milk, and smiling because chocolate milk is fucking awesome and we couldn’t wait to drink it.
Well, everyone got their milk made and sat back down.
And for a while, all was right in the world.
The other day, I was at the store and something occurred to me: I had not had chocolate milk in a long, long time. Chocolate milk is one of my favorite things in the whole world; as far as chocolate flavored drinks are concerned, chocolate milk is third only to chocolate shakes (second place) and Frosties (the best chocolate drink in the whole wide world, bar none).
So I got some powdered chocolate milk mix. This may be a controversial choice for some people, namely chocolate syrup-lovers. But I never liked chocolate syrup. It’s like the nicer version of chocolate powder, and I dislike it in much the same way as I dislike the non-powdered cheese version of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (that silvery packet of pre-mixed cheese sauce grosses me out) and any flavor or Top Ramen besides Chicken and Creamy Chicken (you can keep your fancy-schmancy shrimp and beef flavors). So powder it was.
I didn’t have a glass of chocolate milk as soon as I got home because I knew I’d be forcing it. I wanted to know that chocolate milk was available to me as soon as I got a good, solid hankering for it.
Less than a week later it was time. I was relaxing with the Roomies and I realized that I was a) thirsty, and b) currently experiencing the medical malady known as “sweet tooth.”
The path was clear. It was time for chocolate milk.
What I didn’t count on was my Roomies going apeshit and wanting some too. It was understandable though, and I was more than happy to oblige. There was plenty of powdered chocolate milk mix to go around. This gave me an opportunity to observe their mixing technique, which is, in my opinion, just as important as the powder/syrup issue. There are two techniques.
The Roomies went with technique one: each put two heaping spoonfuls in their respective cups, added milk, and stirred like crazy.
This is wrong.
Technique one leads to sludge at the bottom of the cup.
When I was a kid, I loved the sludge. When I was done, I would tilt the cup way up, position my open mouth at the bottom, and wait for the sludge to slowly creep its way down. Then I would chew the stuff, which was slick on the outside, and powdery on the inside. Only kids can enjoy this. Kids also eat frosting and leave the cake. As an adult, though, I now appreciate the fully-mixed cup of chocolate milk, one that I can sip away at for a little while, and then, at about the halfway mark, finish in one long swallow. I drink orange juice this same way. It allows for measured enjoyment for a while, and then the kind of flavor “hit” that only someone who drinks or smokes or does drugs to excess can appreciate. Having a pile of sludge at the bottom after drinking my chocolate milk in the sip-sip-sip-then-guzzle manner would be like chewing the ice at the bottom of a cocktail, eating the filter of a finished cigarette, or drinking the bongwater: more of the same, but worse. As far as I know, there is only one way to ensure that there is no sludge at the bottom of my chocolate milk without using a blender, and that is technique two.
Technique two is the exact opposite of technique one. It involves timing and finesse, as well as a solid knowledge of the relationship between color and flavor. First, put milk in the cup. Next, take your spoon and begin stirring the milk, not too briskly. You want a consistent mini-whirlpool. If tiny drops of milk are flying out of the cup, you need to slow it down a bit. Once you have the correct spin on things, with your free hand, grab the open container of chocolate milk mix and position it over the mini-vortex. Now, ever so gently, begin tapping the container with one of your gripping fingers, and little bits of powder will begin to trickle out. It is important that you do not stop stirring, and it is equally important that you do not go overboard with the tapping. Not enough stirring or too much tapping will lead to clumps, and clumps sink and become sludge. So stir, and tap, and if you are doing it right, the milk will magically begin to get darker and more chocalatey every second, without any clumpage. If you drink a lot of chocolate milk, you will know the color you like it, and can stop at the exact moment that your mix reaches that color. If not, you are on your own, but keep in mind that grade school chocolate milk is a lighter brown, and bottled Nesquik is a darker brown with a little more thickness to it (If you prefer Yoo-hoo, stop reading this and throw yourself out the closest window, or just omit milk and substitute used toilet water. Yoo-hoo is some gross and terrible shit. This is a fact). I like my chocolate milk slightly darker than grade school brown.
We stirred away, each of us remembering the last time we had chocolate milk, and smiling because chocolate milk is fucking awesome and we couldn’t wait to drink it.
Well, everyone got their milk made and sat back down.
And for a while, all was right in the world.
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